


All I Ask

by Stinacat



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: AU where they're both single, Angst, Can't forget that one, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Sad, Sex, Turnhay, friends to...lovers? Maybe?, not me, turnwood, who knows - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2016-03-17
Packaged: 2018-05-06 16:45:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5424443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stinacat/pseuds/Stinacat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She doesn't know what they're doing anymore. They've had a grand total of one conversation about it, and it didn't answer anything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to thank Adele, for this one. Cheeky bitch and her sad songs.

It’s a bad idea.

She knows it’s a bad idea. But there’s nothing stopping her from thumbing through her phone to his name (should really change the symbols next to it, mortifying if he ever sees) and staring at the blinking cursor in the text space.

_It’s a **bad** idea._

She hasn’t been drinking (would have already sent something if she had – and he’d know anyway) and she doesn’t particularly want to start, but it might make it easier. To exit from her messages or send something she doesn’t know (doesn’t know if she cares). The apartment’s quiet, just ambient noise of electronics – hum of the TV, buzz of the fridge. It’s getting dark too, sun setting earlier as Christmas races up (maybe that’s why she’s so preoccupied, it’s the time of year), and the only light comes from her phone where she’s sitting on the couch, knees pulled up to her chest under the soft blanket that’s normal draped over the footrest.

He’d come, if she messaged him.

Even though they’ve talked about it. Even though they’ve had the conversation - ‘I care about you too much’ – and even though they don’t know what they’re doing (are avoiding talking about it even, way against her better judgement, and his too, probably). He’d come, if she asked.

_I miss you_

Meg looks at the words for all of two seconds before slamming her thumb on the backspace button.

She sits in darkness for a few minutes after the phone dims to blackness.

-

He’d be in trouble, if he had the usual vices. He’d be at the bottom of a bottle, he’s sure.

As it is, there’s no game in the world that will hold his attention – it keeps flicking back to the phone on the coffee table. He feels listless and strangely heavy, like everything requires an enormous amount of effort; it’s asking too much of him.

Ryan sighs.

He could message her. Call her even. She’d answer ( _Would she?_ His brain asks traitorously – he feels like he’s given her enough reason not to).

The thing is it’s confusing. It’s all hopelessly, endlessly, tangled in his head. And that’s the problem, they let it get complicated. It had been easy, in the beginning, to just fool around. Sneak off on lunch breaks when they were working together and take advantage of the lock on the makeup room door. It had just been fun, to get lost in enjoying each other without the responsibilities or expectations.

It had escalated.

But it had still been fun; the after work stops at one or the others apartments, then the occasional weekend night if neither of them were busy.

It had probably started to get complicated _before_ the dirty weekend away, to be fair. Because it doesn’t matter how he looks at it, he cares about her and has for a long time. But they jumped _way_ over the line of gradually getting to know each other in a way conducive to a relationship when they started sleeping together.

Ryan might not be able to say what all of her favourite things are, or all of the things that make her anxious or the things she hates, but he knows exactly where to put his hand on her thigh so that she looks at him with honey in her brown eyes.

(But then, he doesn’t like it when she’s sad – _hates_ it even. He knows when she’s had a bad day when she sits across the orange couch from him and there’s nothing behind her laughter, when all of her attention isn’t on him and her eyes aren’t dancing).

The sun has gone down while he’s been sitting on the couch, slouched against the backrest staring listlessly while he turns it over in his mind. He could disregard it if he wanted to; throw caution to the wind and ignore the ‘I don’t want to lose you as a friend’ bullshit. It’s not that he wants to (he’s desperate not to, ever) but just that he _wants_.

It’s like a fucking ache in his chest radiating through his entire body, and the more he thinks about it the more reckless he feels.

-

He looks boyish, she decides, all messy hair, jeans slung low on his hips and his usual plain shirt underneath what looks like a hastily thrown on hoodie. Meg watches him bite his lip as he stands in the doorway (he’s thinking, trying to figure something out before he says it).

“Movie night?” He says eventually, blue eyes dark and nearly unfathomable in the light – or lack of.

It’s not what she was expecting, but then, it never is with Ryan.

She’d like to say she thinks about refusing him, telling him to fuck off. Or even agreeing on the condition that they talk _properly_ , not just lame excuses and half phrases so full of coding it makes her head hurt just thinking about it vaguely.

But Meg just musters up a smile for him (because she can’t help herself) and steps to the side. “You know where the couch is.”

He looks relieved.

She doesn’t know if she imagined his hand trailing along her arm up to her shoulder as he moves past her.

-

Ryan watches her huddle in the opposite corner of the couch to him, blanket draped over her legs as she looks very determinedly at the screen. He’s not even pretending to watch the movie that they picked, to be honest. He’s watching her try desperately to focus on it so she won’t have to look at him.

It takes him three tries to make himself reach for her. When his hand finally obeys and rests on her ankle she looks at him quickly (confirms that she was actually paying attention to him) wide-eyed behind her glasses. “You’re far away.” He says by way of explanation, grip tightening momentarily and he’s really trying to ignore how many layers are in that phrase (physically, mentally, _from me_ ).

Meg swallows and he tilts his head to the side, turning more fully towards her and opening his arms – if it’s an unspoken invitation, he doesn’t have to say it out loud (that he’s trying to fill whatever’s making him feel so empty/heavy with her because she’s the only thing that works).

-

She’s sure it takes years for her to move. That’s what it feels like, a mental tug of war she’s never felt before. It’s like the decision to let him in or not all over again. Because her skin lights up where his hand was on her leg, until it’s raced up to fill her entire body with something electric.

And god, it’s all she wants to curl up against him, breathe him in and hear his heartbeat in her ear.

But that’s the problem in a sentence.

You’re not supposed to feel like that about friends you sleep with because you’re both single and bored with similar tastes and attitudes. Not people you sleep with just because.

Meg breaks every single mental rule and feeling that she’s ever had and moves close to him, head in the space between his arm and his chest and his arm coming to rest on her hip, dipping under the blanket to feel the line of skin between her shirt and the shorts she wears to bed.

It’s…comfortable.

That’s the scariest part though.

-

They make it halfway through the movie before she turns in his arms to look up at him. He can’t read what she wants in her face or her eyes, but he doesn’t hide that he’s looking at her just as searchingly as she is him.

It hits him for a second that maybe she thinks he only came over because he wanted to sleep with her, not because he wanted to see her (more than anything, that’s what he wanted).

Except then she shifts almost lightening quick to wrap an arm around his neck and pull him so that their lips meet, and the warmhot _desperate_ feeling that bleeds from her to him swirls around him like smoke.

Ryan curls a hand around the back of her neck as she shifts to fit her knees on either side of his thighs, barely pulling her mouth away from his. Her fingers sliding through the longer than usual hair (she likes it) at the back of his head feel like the sweetest thing in the world.

-

She’s not so much thinking anymore as she is getting lost in the way his hands skate over her body, from the bottom of her shorts to the curve of her waist and brushing up under her shirt. And it _is_ easy to get lost in it – his large hands are warm and as familiar against her skin as they are soft.

Ryan pulls away and his breath is heavy in the back of his throat, hair falling into his eyes. She can’t stop herself from combing it back and the split second flash of his smile up at her is well worth it. He noses her head to the side and kisses under the shell of her ear until she shudders and tilts her head to the side, trying to make him move further down.

He pulls back again and she doesn’t stop the frustrated noise spilling out of her mouth. Ryan grins against her lips as he kisses her again. “Hop up for me.”

She could melt at the sound of his voice; it’s so deep and soothing. Meg clambers to her feet (is surprised to feel her legs are shaky under her) and holds her hands out to Ryan to help him up – absolutely not because she’s starved for contact with him now that they’re not touching.

-

Ryan takes her hands and links their fingers together, enveloping her smaller digits. He uses the leverage once he’s up to pull her against him, slinging an arm around her waist so that their bodies are flush together. She’s up on her toes to wrap her arms around his neck, their mouths fighting to mark the other one like a brand. He bites her lip and she moans into him, noise at the back of her throat like it slipped past without her noticing.

He wants to take her to the bedroom, lay her out on her bed so that he can take her apart and put her back together over and over again. With that thought forefront in his mind his hands slide down her back, over the curve of her ass so that he can pick her up. She makes a noise of surprise into his mouth, legs clamping over his hips and crossing at her ankles so that she doesn’t fall (as if he’d ever let her).

When they make it into the bedroom he lowers her onto the white duvet, following her down so that he can lie pressed against her chest, mouth hungry on the creamy skin of her neck. Ryan pushes up the material of her shirt – soft in the way only something that’s well-worn and loved can be – to under her arms, hands resting on the soft mounds of her breasts so he can tweak her nipples the way he knows she likes. They’re already hard and responsive from the cool air in the bedroom (she sleeps with it on the cool side so she can next under the covers – it occurs to him that he shouldn’t know that) and his fingers drag a sweet sounding moan out of her mouth that he catches with his own.

With his hands on her sensitive nipples and him seated between her thighs she’s pliant underneath him, but her kisses are all tongue and teeth, bordering on desperate. The sounds he’s wringing from her just by grinding their hips together and toying with her nipples just make him want to drag it out forever – but he doesn’t think she’ll stand for it (but he likes it when she demands everything from him).

-

Part of Meg wants to let Ryan pull her to pieces like he normally would (ignoring the fact that _normally_ had become the problem) – he’s a consummate lover and he _always_ makes sure she’s well taken care of.

The bigger and more insistent part of her is famished for him.

He looks confused when she pushes at his chest, makes him kneel between her spread thighs while she pushes her shirt over her head and starts to push her shorts down. But there’s heat (and something else…fondness, maybe? She doesn’t let herself think about it long) in his blue eyes when her quick fingers unbuckle his belt and fist in the waistband of his jeans and boxer briefs to start sliding them down his legs.

He shucks his shirt off and she takes a moment to look up at him, trying to breathe normally even though her fingers twitch with wanting to touch him. There are pieces of him locked up in the back of her mind – the dip beneath his ribs, the place above his hips where her legs fit best (the still fading mark on his left hipbone that bears a remarkable resemblance to her teeth), the light dusting of hair on his chest.

As Ryan stands to kick off his jeans and underwear Meg does the same with her shorts, flinging them to the far side of the room because she doesn’t really care where they end up, just that he gets back between her legs immediately. He climbs back onto the bed and bends so that his mouth is travelling up her legs, starting at her ankles and moving all the way to the soft skin of her thighs. And really, his mouth anywhere on her is an excellent idea, but she’s impatient to be as close to him as possible, wants him inside her more than she wants him to drag an orgasm out of her with his fingers and tongue.

-

Honestly, burying his face between her legs is one of his favourite things to do (it’s easy to ignore why that’s a problem when he’s there). And she’s always sung his praises, usually in public to the point where everyone thinks she’s joking and it makes him blush – she likes it when he blushes (even more if she’s the one who makes him blush).

So Ryan’s surprised, when her hand tangles in his hair and it’s not just a way to get his mouth where she wants it instead of just barely breathing on her clit. She pulls hard on the sensitive strands until he looks up at her to see her wide eyed, chest heaving (she looks beautiful).

“I don’t wanna wait.”

And oh.

He likes her impatient.

Her mouth is on his as soon as he surges the length of her body, desperate and grinding against him, nails scraping down his sides in a way that makes him shiver.

-

She’s patient up to the point where the only thing running through her head is how much she wants him. And then she wants him like it’s the last thing in the world she’ll ever have.

Meg’s impatient right up to the moment he slides inside her in one thrust, when she goes tight around him and her nails dig into the curve of his broad shoulders, one of her legs hooked over his thigh.

The friction of his chest against hers makes her feel like she’s on fire, nipples even more sensitive since he had his fingers on them. It’s worse when he bends nearly in half, as deep inside her as he can get, and dips his head to lick and bite at one of them and then the other. But he’s not close enough (she misses the warm weight of him on top of her when he’s kneeling, even though he can fuck her faster).

It’s like he knows though, and in one of the rare shows of his strength he grabs her up from her back and seats her in his lap, thrusts short but deep. One of her hands tangles in his hair again, head dropping down like her neck can’t support the weight – really it’s so she can mouth at his collarbone, mark some of the milky skin there (where it just might peek out of the collar of his shirt).

-

He doesn’t know if she realises she’s doing it, but Meg’s hips start to move in circles and figure eights until all Ryan can do is hold onto her; clutch her against him and say her name over and over again like the most damning kind of mantra (he’d say it for the rest of his life).

The red of her hair is bright even in the lowly lit bedroom (he’d turned the light on while he reached for a condom, loathe to be out of arms reach of her while she was impatient for him like he’d never seen her before) and Ryan unwraps one of his arms from around her back to fist a hand in it. He uses the leverage (and he knows she likes the sharp pain of it, sometimes) to pull her away from his neck and into a bruising kiss.

Their mouths will be swollen and red by the time they’ve finished with one another, but it’s worth it to feel the phantom of the other the next day. .

-

She’s not sure what she thinks as he kisses her. She would say it’s like he never has before, but in the space with all the parts of him in her head there’s a wash of all the times he’s kissed her and they’re like a blur.

They’re still not close enough.

Meg makes a half frustrated noise against him and shoves him onto his back, palms flat on his chest. There’s a thrill that runs through her at the flash of shock on his face, especially when it’s replaced by more of the heat in his eyes (it’s addictive, seeing that and knowing she put it there).

Her black painted nails dig into his chest until they dimple the skin as she rides him, little noises being punched out of her every time she sinks back down. There’s something beatific about him, blond lashes making half circles on his cheeks with his head thrown back and his eyes closed.

His hands wrap around her wrists like _he’s_ the one starved for contact and in a moment of weakness she moves to lace their fingers together, leaning forward so that their joined hands are on either side of his head.

When he shifts to roll them over, she lets him.

She lets him completely surround her; chest to chest, one hand still laced together and their mouths turned languid but no less desperate.

Meg arches her back with her orgasm, free hand between their bodies still touching herself through the aftershocks, if only because she doesn’t want it to end.

His head drops to the space between her neck and shoulder, smothering his moans in her neck.

-

Ryan’s struck by how small she looks all of a sudden, from the other side of her bed with her back to him. It’s like she’s curled in on herself, her legs too far up to be on her side asleep or just resting. There’s a careful amount of space between them too; she’s within arm’s reach but not easily or accidentally – he’d have to stretch to brush her damp skin.

It’s like earlier on the couch all over again; he has to tell his arm to extend and his palm to flatten against her spine. Ryan looks at how his fingertips dimple the pale skin of her lower back (tries not to be stirred at the fact that he covers nearly half of it with one hand – it’s a protective kind of stir) or notice how she jumps at the contact but doesn’t immediately move away.

He rolls onto his side, hand more fully against her. He’s the only thing tethering them together. “You okay?”

Meg doesn’t say anything, just shifts her head up and down against the pillow. It’s infuriating to him that he can’t see her face, that she’s millpond still. He wants a reaction, he wants to _know_. She’s so powerful, most of the time, he doesn’t know what she wants or why she wants it, just that he wants _her_.

It’s reckless all over again and a bit of a final straw when he scoots up behind her and drapes his arm over her. They’ve avoided cuddling after the fact as a whole (on the show is fine. It’s expected, now, people would wonder if it disappeared – that’s what he tells himself anyway, because it’s definitely not an excuse to touch her in a context where he has _every_ excuse).

It’s entirely too easy to bury his nose against the back of her neck and breathe her in, to surround her so completely – it feels like something’s clicked into place in the hole over his chest.

“What is this?” She says quietly.

It breaks his heart a little, that she sounds so unsure all of a sudden. Like he’s crowding her or he’s upset her. And he doesn’t have an answer. “I don’t know.” Ryan answers as honestly as he can.


	2. Do You Think Of Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> epilogue

 He swallows (it’s harder than it should be) and feels his heart stop when he feels her shake against him, turning a little further away and her hand comes up to her face.

He’s never felt so much like a piece of shit in his life as he does making her cry, and that says something, right?

“Hey…hey, come here.” He tries to gently turn her over, at least so he can see her face, and she only fights him for a moment before she gives in and lets him. Meg refuses to look at him but he can see the shine under her eyes even if she’s staring resolutely at his chest.

-

Ryan sighs and brushes his fingers softly under her eyes. She hates herself, for crying in front of him. For letting it happen again. For making him feel like it’s his fault, because she’s more than been complicit in the whole thing. “Sorry.” She sniffs, fingers curled against his chest.

“No, I am.” He bends a little more, resting his head on top of hers. “I’ve fucked this all up.”

He sounds so defeated, as sad as she’s ever heard him (Ryan’s like some kind of relentless sunshine - in her mind anyway). Meg makes her fingers uncurl to fan out against him. “Takes two to tango.” She says lightly, even if she feels anything but.

“No but I…” It’s like he stops himself, drawing in a breath that brings her closer as he wraps around her more. “I haven’t been…honest, with you.”

Meg draws her head back just enough so that she can see his face. “What, are you gonna tell me you’ve got a secret wife and two kids away from your internet life?”

His brow furrows and then he laughs, starting out as a chuckle and giving way into the helpless, breathless laughter that she’s most fond of. “No! Jesus, no.”

“Well,” Meg tucks herself against him again – throws caution to the wind and decides that even if it’s all going to fall apart, for now she’ll take what she can get (and if that’s naked cuddling after some of the most weirdly emotional sex she’s ever had, so be it). “In that case, it’s fine.” She thinks for a second. “And, for the record, lately I don’t think I’ve been entirely honest with you. So we’re both just as bad as each other.”

The tremors of laughter are still going through him as he holds her tighter for a moment. “I mean…as long as you’re not dating like…Gavin, or anything, I think I can deal with it.”

Meg starts laughing until she can’t stop – if only because they _both_ know that Gavin’s so caught up between Geoff and Griffon that the idea of seeing anyone else would be completely foreign to him. That’s just the way it is. She rests her forehead against Ryan’s chest, letting herself cuddle up against him. The silence between them isn’t uncomfortable, but there’s something weighty to it.

“We haven’t done any of this right at all.” Meg says quietly, skin prickling where his thumb brushes against it in the small of her back.

“No.” Ryan agrees, breath stirring the hair on top of her head. “How about…let’s go for breakfast in the morning? We’ll talk. _Actually_ talk.” He amends when she looks up at him with a raised eyebrow. He doesn’t want to tiptoe around it anymore. They’re adults, after all.

Meg shoves off the covers and sits up, and Ryan thinks he’s said something wrong. For a moment he thinks he’s read it _all_ wrong and something more maybe isn’t what she wants at all; maybe she just feels like he’s using her and wants it to stop completely. He’s panicking quietly because that’s definitely not right, and if she felt like that because of him he’d never forgive himself.

She wraps her arms around her knees and leans her head on them, looking at him. It feels like an eternity before she gives him a small smile. “That sounds nice. I’d like that.” And then with a braver smile. “It’s a date?” Meg pokes him in the chest as she says it, painted nail stark against his pale skin.

Ryan grins, and the weight in the room lifts. “That it is.”

He’s half asleep when she gets back from the ensuite smelling faintly of toothpaste, but he reaches across the bed for her and pulls her close. It takes a second, but then Meg relaxes against him, their fingers tangling together over her chest.

**Author's Note:**

> I know, I know (there's an epilogue)


End file.
